


Some Portion of Paradise

by ba_lailah



Category: Original Work
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Kissing, Love Confessions, Regency Romance, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25838380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ba_lailah/pseuds/ba_lailah
Summary: When Lillian's first ball goes badly, she turns to Florence for comfort.
Relationships: Beauty Embarking on the Season/Her Less Beautiful Childhood Friend Embarking on the Season, OFC/OFC
Comments: 15
Kudos: 51
Collections: The Prince Regent's Birthday Regency/Victorian Flash Exchange





	Some Portion of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



> Oh! cease to affirm, that man, since his birth,  
> From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;  
> Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,  
> And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.
> 
> [—Lord Byron](https://books.google.com/books?id=NXEAAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA335&ci=31%2C701%2C476%2C841&source=bookclip#v=onepage&q&f=false)

"Florence, dear, are you well?"

Her mother's voice snapped her out of her reverie. "Fine, mama." Miss Florence Broadmoor smiled hesitantly. "It's all... very much."

"Let's find a bit of quiet." Mrs. Broadmoor linked arms with her, guiding her out of the crowded ballroom and into a quieter sitting room. Music and chatter drifted in but the sounds weren't loud enough to disturb the conversations of the elegantly dressed people gathered in twos and threes. Florence's feet already hurt; she had stood up for four dances and it was not even midnight. But all the seats were occupied, so the two of them began to stroll slowly around the room as though it were a path in a park. 

"I feel as though everybody knows everybody and I know nobody," Florence confessed. "How do I begin to strike up a conversation?"

"As you would anywhere," Mrs. Broadmoor said. "Compliment a lady's gown or hair. When a gentleman speaks of his interests, say that they do sound interesting. You need do very little to make a fine impression; indeed, the more you say, the more likely you are to say something you might regret, but if you keep quiet you will be seen as an appealingly mysterious beauty." Her kind smile softened the painful words, though it was no secret to anyone that Florence's fine looks and comportment were not matched by graceful speech. She could not keep from saying what she was thinking, no matter whether those thoughts were of interest to others or, indeed, quite appropriate. "No one will expect much from you at the first ball of your debut season," her mother added. "Only to dance and smile."

"I wonder how Lillian is getting on," Florence said, navigating around the fireplace. She was wearing by far the nicest dress she'd ever had, and she didn't want to risk an ember scorching it.

"Perhaps you'll find her in the crowd. If not, you may be very sure she and Mrs. Spring will pay us a call tomorrow."

Florence laughed. "Mrs. Spring would never deny herself the opportunity to gossip!"

"Now, there you go, dear, saying more than you should." Florence pinched her lips together, chagrined. "You have only spoken what I implied," her mother allowed, "but you must allow a subtlety to stand, like a lady behind the screen of her dressing-room, and not fling the screen aside to reveal her in her petticoat."

"Yes, mama," Florence said.

"Now do not bite your lip, it is most unbecoming. Smile, lift your chin, and do try to look as though you wish to be here."

Florence was saved from this impossible request by glimpsing a familiar green shawl. "There is Lillian!" she exclaimed. "Mama, let me go catch her before she vanishes into the crush."

At her mother's nod, Florence freed her arm and dashed into the corridor with unladylike speed, calling after her friend. Lillian heard her somehow and turned, smiling.

"You look radiant," Florence said; she had learned there was no harm in turning her natural honesty to an effusive compliment. Besides, she spoke only truth. Lillian's dark hair, dressed in perfect curls, framed her warm and open face. There was a sweet, natural blush upon her pale skin, and her lips formed a perfect Cupid's bow. Her white muslin gown was modest and perfectly fitted, flattering her curvaceous form, and though Florence had seen that green silk shawl upon many an occasion, it had been so well cared for, and so neatly pressed and arranged, that it appeared quite new. Really, Florence did not think any other debutante at the ball was half so well turned out, and had not her own gown been so finely made, she might even have felt a bit shabby next to her friend. She could never fathom why Lillian was considered the lesser beauty, when one had only to glance at her to see the cleverness in her sparkling brown eyes and the wit in the slightest quirk of her mouth, a beauty of the soul that must assuredly leave its stamp upon her flesh. Florence would certainly rather gaze upon Lillian than into her mirror, and she took every opportunity to lavish her friend with the kind words which others so unaccountably denied her.

"Well, I am so pleased to see you," Lillian said. "I confess, there has been little else here to please me." She looked around. "Where may we speak alone, do you think?"

"The garden, perhaps? But we ought not to go there without a chaperone, my mama said so, though I cannot think what harm could come to us in a garden."

A passing young man gave Florence a smile like a cat spying a mouse. "Stroll with me in the garden and I'll explain it to you," he offered. His friends chuckled as though he had produced some witticism.

"Oh look, there is your mother," Lillian said, hastily drawing Florence away from the young man, who laughed and winked at her as she looked back at him.

"I don't see her," Florence said, confused. "Why did you pull me away from him?"

Lillian cast her eyes to heaven. "He wanted to ravish you in the garden, you ninny!" she whispered in Florence's ear.

Florence gasped, raising her fan to cover the color in her cheeks. "The idea! We haven't even been introduced!"

Lillian only laughed, shaking her head. Florence admired how her curls bounced. Florence's hair couldn't hold a curl no matter how she tried, and she'd resigned herself to a bonnet that was not quite in fashion.

By now they'd found their way up a flight of stairs, where Florence wasn't certain they ought to go, and had left the ball behind. Lillian tried a doorknob and found that it opened into a disused bedroom, its furniture draped with dust-cloths. "In here," she said, pulling a candle from a wall sconce.

"Lillian, are you sure—"

"Come _on_." Lillian dragged her in and shut the door.

The single candle did little to illuminate the bedroom. Lillian worked the stump into a chamberstick that someone had left atop a dressing table, so the flickering light was doubled by the mirror, but Florence still shivered, finding the room quite eerie. "What—" she began, but then, to her astonishment, Lillian sat down on the bed and began to cry.

"My dear!" Florence pulled her handkerchief from her reticule and pressed it into her friend's hand. "What is the matter?"

"Oh, you wouldn't understand," Lillian sobbed, "you're fending off dancing partners right and left. But I have been so dreadfully snubbed tonight, no one will dance with me at all, not even Louis Devon whose mother is my mother's dearest friend, and—and—I heard some girls saying the _cruelest_ things. That I'm, I'm horse-faced and my hair is greased with beef drippings and my gown must be someone's cast-off—"

"How dare they!" Florence cried, embracing her friend. "You're beautiful! Your gown is beautiful! And how I envy your hair. They must be speaking from purest jealousy."

Lillian choked out a bitter laugh. "You need not lie to me. No one ever envies my looks."

"I do _not_ lie," Florence said fiercely. "I never lie. You know I never lie. I would trade this horrid bonnet in an instant for curls like yours."

"You could wear a bonnet of pigskin and still look beautiful," Lillian said miserably, swiping the handkerchief over her swollen eyes. "And I would still look like the skinned pig."

"What utter nonsense. It is really quite dreadful enough for others to say such things about you, and I will not stand for you to say them about yourself." Florence tightened her arms around Lillian. "Why, I will compliment you enough to outweigh a hundred such insults, and then you may learn to love yourself as I love you."

Lillian turned toward her, with a look upon her tear-dampened face that Florence could not name. "Do you love me, then?"

" _Lillian._ " Florence pressed a hand to her breast as genuine pain lanced through her. "You have been my dearest friend since we were children. How could you doubt—"

"Oh," Lillian sighed. "I thought... well, it is no matter."

"What did you think?" Florence asked, now greatly puzzled. "That I loved you or that I did not? For I do, I assure you!" Lillian shook her head. "No, tell me! What is it?"

Lillian hesitated. "You must swear never to tell a soul," she said. "And please, promise we will still be friends."

"I will keep your confidence, I swear it," Florence said instantly, though a moment later she thought she ought to have heard the secret first, lest it be a murder confession or some other sort of thing that she could not in good conscience keep to herself even for Lillian. But she did not really think Lillian the murdering sort. "And I cannot fathom what you could say that would diminish our friendship."

"I thought." Lillian's fingers curled tightly around the damp handkerchief. "I thought you loved me as a man loves a woman, or a woman loves a man."

"Oh!" Florence furrowed her brow. "I have never heard of such a thing. Can women love one another in that fashion?"

"I do," Lillian said, taking her hand.

Florence looked down at their hands, and then up at Lillian. For some reason her heart was pounding, and Lillian's jasmine scent seemed to swirl around her like a fog. "Well, I... I have never loved a man, so I cannot say whether I love you the way I would love a man," she said slowly, thinking through it. "I am not a naturalist of love, to understand what sort is fish and what sort is fowl. But I cannot imagine how I could love anyone more than I love you, whatever sort of love it is." She drew Lillian's hand to her heart. "You live in me here," she said. "I can think of no better way to say it."

In the candlelit dimness, Lillian's eyes were huge and dark—and very close, Florence realized. "Florence," Lillian breathed, and Florence felt that breath on her lips, awakening something inside her she had not realized was slumbering.

"Oh," she said faintly. "Oh, I... oh." She pressed Lillian's hand to her breast. "Oh my. What is this?"

"Passion," Lillian said. Her low voice made Florence shiver.

Ever so gently, Lillian brushed her lips across Florence's. Then she drew back, watching Florence's face. Florence stared at her. "You kissed me," she whispered.

"I did," Lillian said, just as quiet.

Florence raised a trembling hand to Lillian's cheek. "Do it again."

Lillian's lips were soft and warm. Florence tasted the salt of her tears and wanted to weep herself with anger that anyone could have been so cruel to someone so utterly splendid. She kissed Lillian back, clumsy but fervent, longing to show her how well she was loved; and, too, she felt that strangeness welling up in her, a feeling of wanting to somehow become so intimately entwined with Lillian that their hearts would beat together inside a single body. She caught her friend around the neck and drew her close, feeling Lillian's arms circle her waist, and kissed her and kissed her until she was giddy. 

"My dear," she gasped against Lillian's tender mouth, "my dear, how I love you," and it seemed the most important thing in the world to say, so she said it again and again as Lillian murmured "Florence" and "my love" and embraced her so tightly she thought they could never be parted.

At last they were too breathless to continue. They stared at each other in the dark, their breath heaving. Florence knew she yearned for something but could not fathom what. Did she not already have everything, and more than everything?

"You look a sight," Lillian said, tucking a wisp of Florence's hair back into her bonnet. "As though someone has stolen you away from the ball to ravish you."

"And did not you do precisely that?" Florence said lightly, though her heart was pounding still.

"I did not mean to," Lillian said. "I longed to. But I was certain you would not permit it." She cupped Florence's face in her hands. "Want it."

"I want it," Florence said, turning her face up to Lillian's like a flower to the sun. "I have never wanted anything so much. Have you felt so for all this time?"

"As long as I can remember," Lillian said.

"Then," Florence ventured, "why were you displeased when men would not dance with you?"

"They would have been poor substitutes for you, to be sure," Lillian said. "But I could hardly say to my mother, 'No need to parade me in front of the eligible gentlemen, mama, for I will only marry Florence.' "

"Marry!" Florence's heart lifted and sank all at once: such a wonderful notion, to be married to Lillian, and so impossible. "But we could not."

"Have you never known two spinsters to keep company? Or two widows?"

"Oh," Florence said for what felt like the hundredth time. Her head was swimming. She thought of her Aunt Cordelia, who had never married and lived with her widowed friend Mrs. Hilton. They were old ladies—Mrs. Hilton had grandchildren—and she could not really imagine them kissing each other into a frenzy. But they were always together. "Do you think... they keep company like this?"

"Not all," said Lillian, who had clearly devoted some time to pondering this. "But some do."

"Then we need only make a pact to refuse all proposals," Florence said, "and soon enough we shall be spinsters and then we may set up a household—"

Lillian started laughing. "To think I thought I could not have you," she said.

"You have always had me," Florence said. "To be sure, I had not thought of kissing you, but I find it most agreeable! All the rest—I already knew nothing could part me from you, not marriage or children or a voyage across the sea. You are my Lillian, my dearest friend, my bosom companion. None could compare." And then there was nothing for it but to kiss Lillian again.

They were a little while at that delightful pastime, and a little while longer setting each other's hair and clothing to rights. By the time they returned the candle stub to its sconce and crept back down the stairs, Florence feared they had been gone too long and someone would take note. But no worry could dampen her gay spirits. She and Lillian had made their compact, and the season could go hang.


End file.
